


Happy Compromise

by serpahimjones



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Buckle up, F/M, M/M, Multi, So this is gonna be long, Wedding, a lot of spare time, and feelings, but now im an adult with two writing majors, i'm gonna update this often, it's gonna be similarly styled to donna's writing but i can only get so close, its gonna be horny, okay ya'll so i haven't written fanfic since 2012
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-09-27 09:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20405236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpahimjones/pseuds/serpahimjones
Summary: Richard gets a random letter from Francis, nearly a decade after Hampton. He and Priscilla have broken up, and he believes he's found a suitable bride to replace her. This wedding, however, will likely get a little too close to home, and he calls upon his old friend to try and help him suffer through it.There's gonna be a lot of suffering.





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey ya'll, idk if you read the tags, but I haven't written fanfic since middle school, but now that I'm a grown person with writing degrees, I'm going to use my very expensive education to self-satisfy lmao. 2000 words is nothing to me, so I hope ya'll read this, because I sure am gonna write it. 
> 
> Also if Richard seems dickish and myopic it's because he kind of is.

It was late August. Sophie had just left me, as well she probably should have, and I was left in a sort of social vacuum. Back in California, with fewer friends than I had last time, I felt very disconnected. I stopped tidying my apartment—stopped going to work as an English professor at some no-name college Sophie had me apply to—and almost completely removed myself from polite society. I don’t know what my plan exactly was, but step one seemed to be going marvelously. It was complete chance, that one day, when returning home, I noticed my now overstuffed mailbox spilling out a glasshouse blue envelope, with careful cursive writing spelling out my name and address. It was from Francis.

I couldn’t wait a moment. I tore it open in the hallway.

_ Richard, dear man, _

_ I am in much better spirits than the last time we spoke! _

_ I have long believed such things to be a myth, but I believe I have stumbled upon a happy compromise with my grandfather. (How blind I have been!) While my own feelings on the matter have not changed in any notable fashion, I have found a suitable bride—one whom I may actually survive a marriage to! I cannot elaborate much through print, however, I am certain you will feel as warmly for her as I do. _

_ I insist you come to visit at my earliest convenience. How’s early September? You can stay in my new apartment. (Well, I suppose now it is our apartment.) _

September in Manhattan. Hard, bright, ebullient days; bellowing car horns; people swarming taxis like flies to an overripe cantaloupe. I remembered my own summer in New York, after junior year, dog sitting for that professor. It was a delightfully lonely time, with lots of long, thoughtful walks and evening trips to pagotas for greasy slices of pizza. I could enjoy New York again. Especially now, alongside an alarmingly good-humored Francis.

Admittedly, spending any more time in my own apartment would likely result in some poor policeman being forced to scrape my body off of the pavement beneath my living room window. Sophie left in an admirable hurry, leaving her less vital belongings in my possession; some pairs of stockings, a painting of a sad looking Labrador retriever, a lovely butterfly pin with little inlaid amethysts. I can’t find it in myself to throw any of it away or forward it to her new address in San Antonio. Instead, I walk through her petrified things, like a mother of a long dead child, who keeps the bedroom just as they left it.

_Please, say yes. Really, I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but I could really use your assistance through these next few weeks or so. We would all hate for the groom to develop cold feet with so much at stake. _

The word “we” stood out on the page. There hadn’t been a we in nearly a decade. And yet, suddenly, Francis—nervous, haughty, Francis—was pleading to me, as if I were the only person who could support him through this unfamiliar struggle. How was I to have any insight on how to circumnavigate a sham wedding? How was I, of all people, to ensure he walked stone-faced down the aisle, to his poor, naïve bride?

It was an altogether awful situation. True, Francis would spend a lifetime sneaking around in hotel rooms; doomed to seek sex without affection—or worse!, actually fall in love with one of his liaisons!—but I tend to sympathize more with the anonymous bride, who would live attached to an ambivalent husband. I was unwilling to stamp my approval to such a union.

Yet, the allure of a mostly-bankrolled holiday, reliving the decadence of my youth with Francis, who was only insufferable at his worst and downright pleasant at his best, did somewhat persuade me. It’s not exactly like I had anything better to do.

I had a little over 4,700 dollars in my savings account. I could catch tonight’s redeye, if I called a cab, now. I could be in New York by sunrise. No, he’ll think I’m desperate if I arrive too suddenly. Listen to me, don’t I sound so young, again!

_ I would normally not impose upon you so randomly, but I miss my friend a great deal. I hope you can reciprocate the earnest anticipation on which I await you. Please forward your things to Magnolia Place, Upper Manhattan. My assistant, Heloise, (!) is aware of and prepared to cover any resulting costs. _

_ Incorrigibly, _

_ Francis _

That settles that. I set down the letter and began dialing the phone.

****

My experience of the flight was short and miserable. I took an Ambien after we took off, and not a moment sooner. If one ever makes the mistake of taking an Ambien too early, and then having to deal with a mechanical failure and thus shuffled off of one plane, onto the tarmac, and then another plane, all in a hazy delirium, they would never choose to repeat it.

Shortly after arriving at JFK, (loud, horrible airport; dead-eyed people, constant delays) I saw a chauffeur in the baggage claim, holding up a Tiffany blue piece of cardboard with the name “Papen” stenciled onto it. I walked up to the man, a wiry, spritely older man, and announced myself.

“Oh, excellent. Excellent. May I take your carry-on, Mister Papen?”

I was unwilling to handover my carry-on, a worn leather bag essentially functioning as my personal pharmacy, so I clapped him on the back rather awkwardly and made my way towards the exit, him striding close behind.

It was a fifty-something minute ride to Francis’ neighborhood, peppered with short attempts at conversation from the particularly chipper driver. I tipped him well. My luggage, he assured me, had already been delivered. In truth, I hadn’t packed much for this trip, what with not knowing the exact duration of my stay. Francis had mentioned a few weeks… was I to stay until the wedding? It dawned on me, in the yellow morning light, on the other side of the country, standing in front of Francis’ building, how extraordinarily underprepared I was for such a reunion. I hadn’t seen Francis in nearly a decade, now, here I was, on his doorstep, the day after his letter arrived. How was I caught in the same hysteria I’d lived through at Hampton, just by the mere mention of Francis so many years later? 

I went up the steps of the building, several nice, old, renovated brownstones sewn together, and into the lobby. My flip-flops clicked off the brown marble floor, (Flip flops! I’m going to meet Francis in flip flops. How very Californian.) announcing me to the petite receptionist.

“How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for Francis Abernathy.”

“Oh, yes. Mister Papen?”

I quietly hid my confusion. Francis, it seems, had taken a lot of precaution to ensure I arrived here as swiftly as possible. “Yes.”

“Mr. Abernathy said you’d be coming. Apartment 14C. East wing. You can take the leftmost elevator.”

“Thank you.” I went into the elevator, which was playing some dreadful oversimplification of a recent pop song, and up to Francis’ floor.

His building, apparently, was one of the oldest in New York, the bare bones of which were once burned by the English during the Revolutionary War, and then rebuilt shortly into the Industrial Revolution. Now, it was home to some minor celebrity, who often guest starred on a popular crime show.

The elevator opened in front of his door. I stood for a moment, unsure of whether or not to knock. Then again, I couldn’t turn around now, what with him making so sure he’d be notified of my absence. I had to go forward. I knocked, three times. I heard a bit of movement behind the door, like a glass being set on a countertop and then, it swooped open.

There he was, all six-foot-three of him, in a navy pin-striped cotton dress shirt and dark red slacks. His hairline had inched back slightly, making his face looked gaunter, but it was the same crinkled-eye smile, the same spray of freckles on the bridge of his nose.

“Richard!” he leaned in to embrace me, and I accepted it. I felt warm and rested in his arms. I realize, I had not been touched in quite some time. He pulled back. “Come in, come sit down.”

I entered his apartment. It was magnificent; sparse and sophisticated in its decoration, jade green wallpaper and big cherry bookshelves, twin antique lounge chairs acquired from some local refurbisher, a tasteful handblown glass chandelier.

“Can I make you a drink? How was the flight?”

I realized I hadn’t spoken yet. “Sure. And awful.”

He began rummaging through a gilded liquor cabinet. “Bourbon? Gin?” “Bourbon is fine.” I sat down on one of the antique chairs, trying not to stare at him too directly. It was strange, painful nostalgia to see grown-up Francis. Francis who lived to see 30, with two creamy veins of white running through his red waves. “What have you been up to?” I asked him. “Besides, well…”

“Getting engaged?” he answered. “Oh, not too much. I started an art gallery, which lasted all of about eight months, before my grandfather realized it wasn’t turning a profit and pulled the plug on it. My mother and I took a fair amount of money and invested it into dispensaries after that.”

“Marijuana dispensaries?”

I heard him scoff. “Yes. Does that offend your sensibilities?”

“No, I just don’t remember you liking pot.” He handed me my drink: a double, with two ice cubes knocking melancholically into each other. This was a business meeting.

“I didn’t,” he finished, “until my mother made me stop taking pills.”

_ “No.” _

He nodded. “I had a brief stretch at Betty Ford after Priscilla and I ended things. Really, I think it was all a bit ridiculous. It wasn’t like I couldn’t sit up.” He lit a cigarette, rolling his eyes dismissively. “Anyway, now I smoke a bit for the anxiety. I have a medical card. We’re actually making quite a profit on it.”

I sipped my drink. It must be upsetting to still be so controlled; by his mother, his grandfather, his eventual wife. All of his choices were given a second opinion. He was permanently invalid.

The room was dark and comfortable. It was nice to see him without mismatched furniture. One particular side table caught my eye. “That table—” I started.

“Hmm? The clawfoot?”

“Yes. This was at the house in the country.”

“It was.” He flicked his cigarette on the side of his armchair, the ashes floating to the floor. “My family sold that house, not two years ago. I took a lot of the furniture. Lovely old pieces, I can’t bear to watch them sold.” He got quiet, then, staring at the wall. So much was different now.

“Francis,” I began, “you’re on your second fiancée.”

He readjusted in his seat, nodding his head at me emphatically. “Yes, yes, I know. Finish your drink, and we’ll get into that.” Frustrated, I downed my drink, and watched as he finished his, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down anxiously, and set it back on the side table.

_ “Francis,”_ I urged.

“You know what?” he stood up, suddenly. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll tell you about her at brunch. I was thinking the Plaza? Or is that too posh? I believe we’re between tourism seasons, but then again, I haven’t lived here very long.”

****

We had brunch at the Plaza. He ordered a pitcher of mimosas and two Boston coffees as soon as the waiter arrived at the table. “Oh, and two waters, I suppose,” he added, mostly as an afterthought. They were brought promptly, and he poured both of our glasses, raising his ceremoniously. “To live.”

I could see on his face that he knew he’d struck a nerve. Why this? Why now?

“To live forever.” I replied. We both drank.

The waiter returned. We ordered—eggs benedict with smoked salmon and various pastries—and he lit a cigarette.

“Francis,” I began, again, “what happened to Priscilla?”

“We decided that we were incompatible.”

“You don’t say?”

He gave me a harsh look. “Yes. And I’ve since become engaged, again.”

“Who’s the lucky girl?”

He looked back at me, but the harshness had curdled to pity. “Well, about that. You may have heard, I’m not sure how much contact you’ve had with her recently, that Camilla’s grandmother passed this spring.”

My stomach dropped. “_No._ No, Francis. Surely, you’re joking with me.”

“Nearly about the same time Priscilla and I separated,” he continued, unbothered by my abject horror. “And I’m sure you can appreciate the convenience of it all. She was left without connections, and without a degree, I might remind you, all alone in Virginia. And I, of course, was being forced to marry under extraordinary duress, considering how Priscilla…” He trailed off. “Let’s just say, Priscilla did me no favors. She was by no means a good sport about this whole deal. Once I’d been caught, she went feral, breaking vases, calling my grandfather at the office to spew slurs. It was quite unattractive.”

I wished he’d stop speaking. Nothing he said had meaning to me. I could see his mouth, the animation of his face, but the words seemed far away.

“Richard,” he urged. I returned to reality. “Please say you can forgive me. Truly, you must understand.” I said nothing, punishing him with silence. I could feel it permeating him. “At the very least,” he went on, “I do love her. Very dearly. She’s closer than a sister to me.”

I had to hold my breath to hide my revoltion at the thought. I’ve heard what it’s like to have her as a sister.

Jealously, disgust, anger. Yearning? I couldn’t really hate Francis for this, for doing the thing I so wish I could do for Camilla—rescue her, carry her away from her troubles, but I didn’t enjoy the thought, either. Camilla Abernathy. The words sat heavy as a rock.

“Does she live with you?”

“Sometimes. She’s sort of loose right now.” He chuckled. “She’s never really been free before. Twenty years under Charles’ thumb, another handful caring for her sickly grandmother. This is the first time she’s ever been unbothered. Unsupervised, even.”

“She’s with other people?”

“So vulgar. No, she’s been travelling. Quietly, not very far, but she takes little adventures on her own. It’s really quite charming. You should see the picnic baskets she packs. She’ll go off for about a week or so. A postcard will usually arrive at the apartment about the same time she will.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. This is just a lot to process.”

“Yes, of course. Take your time.” Slight edge of patronizing concern. I did miss Francis.

“Alright. So, when is the wedding?”

“Well, that’s the other thing.” He stubbed his finished cigarette on an empty plate and lit another. “I apologize that I didn’t send you an invitation, but I thought this was the type of thing to tell you in person. It’s in two months. Winter wedding. Camilla insisted. And I would love for—in fact, I insist you—serve as my best man.”

I nearly choked swallowing a bite of salmon. Francis moaned, head in hands. “I know,” he wailed, “it’s a disaster. It’s just that, well, you know how my mother knows Camilla…and by that way, knows Charles. And she just loves him so dearly and fought tooth and nail against Camilla to ask him to be a groomsman. I'm sure he nearly had a stroke when the invitation arrived. Big, creamy letters inviting him to celebrate our union. And dammit, wouldn’t you know, we get a letter back from Vegas, saying he’d love to attend, no plus one. Camilla’s worried sick. She hasn’t seen him in years. And I—” He was beginning to cry in earnest now, fat tears dripping down his cheeks. He patted at them with a big white napkin. “I don’t really look forward to seeing him either. Especially this way. How much more humble could I make myself? I thought maybe you could help? I know! I know, it’s so absolutely selfish of me.”

“Charles and I didn’t end on the greatest of terms.”

“He was out of his mind then. For god sakes, he shot you!” He noticed his volume, and leaned across the table at me suspiciously, and began briskly whispering. “I’m sure he’s past any grudges by now.”

“You don’t think, maybe, that I might hold a grudge against him?” He looked genuinely puzzled. I could see shallow lines forming between his eyebrows and on his forehead. 

“Do you?”

Truthfully, I didn’t, but I wasn’t excited to see him, either. “He’s not here already?”

“No, but he’ll be here in about a month, once the festivities begin." He laughed, wiping his tears away with his pale hands. "He's quite excited for my bachelor party. Camilla, however, is in town, and would love to see you today.”

My heart fluttered. Love to see me?

“After brunch?” 

“Hell.” He said, lifting his arm and calling for a waiter. “Let’s go now.” He tossed an indiscriminate, but surely lofty amount of money from his wallet and onto the table. “I’ve got the check.”


	2. Sedated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard is finally reunited with Camilla, who fills in some blanks about the situation, and whose presence really brings the trio together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, remember how I said it was gonna be horny? yeah
> 
> I'm glad you've been liking it so far, and i hope this doesn't give you the heebies, but i cant stand the talk-around method that donna tartt uses about sex 
> 
> this'll prob be updated about every five or so days. i've got three chapters, two papers, and a book report due by wednesday, so thats the current outlook.
> 
> no worries, that's a lot but it's not like death, expect another chap around the 5th or 6th

Camilla was at a bookstore while we were at brunch, and we beat her cab home. I hadn’t gotten to tour his apartment in our rush to become reacquainted, so he showed me around when we returned from brunch. He and Camilla had separate bedrooms; (Breathe a sigh of relief.) his a bright, colonial goldenrod, with dark wood furniture and a splendid Klimt painting he purchased when he owned the gallery, and Camilla’s a spring green dream, with airy linen curtains and vases of gardenias placed on all available surfaces: her bedside table, her vanity, beside the inkwell on her desk…

And, I noticed, beneath a stack of lavender stationary, the edge of what I believed to be a leatherbound journal. A diary?

It didn’t matter then, Francis ushered me from her room quickly, to protect her privacy, I imagine. He used to lavish in my frustration towards Camilla—give a sly smile at his accomplishment every time he caused me to blush over her—but now, he seemed to have lost the joy in it. Maybe it was general male dominance, a man protecting his woman, but I suspected that he was just trying to divert my attention for competing reasons.

There was a glorious sunroom looking over the street below, which Camilla, he told me, transformed into an art studio.

“She’s been enjoying working with watercolors, as of late,” he said, running his hand over the edge of a canvas. She had painted a deer; a small doe, leading a spotted fawn across a melting stream. “She’ll spend hours in here.”

I started to become uncomfortable looking at the painting. Something about the stream, the steep cliff behind the tiny deer, felt all too familiar.

“It’s an excellent room,” I said, awkwardly.

“_Oh_,” he laughed, “you haven’t seen my favorite room, yet.”

He led me towards a dark-paneled lounge. A gigantic, antique quartz bar, he must have spent a fortune on, stood against the center wall, with shelves upon shelves of liquor stacked behind. A small player piano was near the fireplace, with a marble bust set atop it. He took a bottle and began opening it.

“Champagne, I think, for our grand reunion.” He tilted his head towards the glassware. “Three flutes.”

I went to grab them; lovely, crystal stemware, with little lilies-of-the-valley carved into them. Francis popped the bottle, champagne spilling onto the bar. He laughed, and set the bottle in an ice bucket.

We heard the front door open, the shimmer of keys being carried inside. _Camilla._

I was already turning to go to her, glasses still in hand, when I felt Francis behind me. He set his hand on my outer hip, pinning me to him, keeping me still. I stopped, half out of sheer bewilderment.

“Francis?” Her sweet voice called from the living room.

“We’re in the bar, darling,” he said. He looked down at me. “Set those on the bar, Richard.”

I didn’t want to listen so obediently, and yet, I set the glasses on the bar and sat quietly, as Francis began to pour.

Camilla glided into the room, hair tousled from the crowded streets. She was the same—nearly exactly the same. She was wearing a blue cotton sundress and carrying a white straw hat, rubbing the brim between her nail-bitten fingers. Her eyes were just as bright and curious. She smiled when she saw me. I smiled back.

“Richard!” She beamed, walking towards me to kiss my cheek. She held me by the forearms, gripping me tightly. “You look wonderful.”

I couldn’t stop grinning. “So do you.”

“So do I,” Francis said. Camilla went to kiss him on the cheek, as well. “How was your day, darling?”

“Good. I had lunch at the little French restaurant on 8th.” She sat on a barstool beside him. He handed both of us a flute. She sipped hers slowly, glancing between us. “Did you two go to the Plaza?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Richard has been indoctrinated into our little scheme.”

She exhaled heavily, a delicate hand running along her brow. “Thank God. Richard,” she began, setting her hand on mine in a way that made my thoughts halt. “I know this is so much to ask of you.”

“It’s nothing.” I said, quickly. “Really. I understand.” She squeezed my hand a bit harder and let go.

“No, this is unreasonable. I promise, we’ll figure out a way to make it up to you.”

The words were on the tip of my tongue. _Marry me? _

We kept drinking. When we finished the first bottle of champagne, we opened another. It was lovely to be with them again, trading jokes and memories. Slowly, we made our way from the bar onto the balcony, which sat precariously above the city. Francis sat perched on the armrest of his chair, as Camilla leaned over the edge of the world. The summer breeze ran its fingers through her hair, carrying the scent of hyacinths back to me. I was intoxicated. And it wasn’t just the wine.

Francis noticed me staring. “Enjoying the view?” He chided.

“Yes,” I looked to my feet. “Spectacular.”

Camilla looked over her shoulder at me, smiling brilliantly. “Francis and I want to run away after the wedding. Spend a year trekking all over the globe. Lot’s of spectacular views to be seen.” She was bolder, now. There were shadows of Charles in how she engaged people; soft, entrapping eye-contact, lots of little touches, a knowing glance when appropriate. In lieu of the honey-slow, passive seduction she used to employ on me, it seemed as though she was outright flirting, with both Francis and I.

We drank through dinner. We all ate recently, and we figured any more food might ruin our buzz.

“Let’s play euchre,” she said suddenly, hopping down from the ledge.

“That’s a four player game,” Francis said.

“Not if we play with a dummy hand. It’ll just be two players versus the maker. I have a deck sorted out in my bedroom. In the little drawer on the vanity.”

He considered for a moment. “I can make a pitcher of something while I’m up. White or brown liquor?” “White,” she said. Francis stood up and stretched, then made his way into the apartment.

Camilla sat in his chair, next to me, and leaned onto the table, resting her cheek on her hand, swan-thin wrists bent. The air was still. I was aware of the dwindling space between us; six inches apart from each other, nearly a hundred feet in the air. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, dreamily. “This would’ve been so difficult without you.”

“I’m happy to be here.”

“It’s hard to believe it happened so quickly. Three months ago, this was all a little joke. Now, Olivia is asking to take me dress shopping.”

I tilted my head, just barely, but she noticed the inquisitiveness. “Olivia is Francis’ mother, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” I chuckled. “I do, now.”

“It’s almost a little exciting. She’s extremely overbearing, but it’s a warm, gentle kind of pressure.” She sighed. “I haven’t had a mother in a very long time.”

I nodded, having no good words to tack on. She smiled at me. The city lights lit her eyes from their normal dark, dusky grey, illuminating them so they seemed almost mirror clear. “How did Francis and Priscilla break up?” I had been wondering since the letter arrived. Francis had hinted at some terrible breakdown.

She tilted her head, trying hard to suppress a smile, but delighting in the gossip. “Francis is so clumsy,” she began, “you would think he’d be a bit more careful, after how his grandfather found out about Kim—”

“How _did_ he find out about Kim?”

She exhaled. “You poor thing. No one ever tells you _any_thing, do they?”

She was right. I get most information second-hand. No matter how close I seem to get to people, it always feels like a scavenger hunt.

“Dr. Abernathy,” she went on, “Francis’ grandfather, found out about Kim when he came to drop off a birthday present for him, at his old apartment. He and Kim were, well, otherwise engaged and didn’t hear him knock on the door. But, being the man who paid for the apartment, Dr. Abernathy had a key.”

“_No_.”

“Yes. Francis said he looked like he could’ve killed him. But you’ve never met Dr. Abernathy. The man is dreadfully, deadly calm. Kim jumped out of bed and Dr. Abernathy threw him his suit. Poor Francis just stood in the corner, shrieking, clinging to a bedsheet. It was terrible. Awful.” She lit a cigarette. Had she smoked, before? I’d forgotten. “Anyway, then Priscilla comes into the picture. Francis despised her immediately, but he’s such a good man, he did his best to pretend around her. But he kept a box full of mementos from ex-boyfriends, apparently, at the top of his coat closet. Priscilla went in to search all his pockets for a lighter and saw the box. Inside there were a lot of sweet things, like theater tickets and locks of hair, but also some long, handwritten, extremely detailed letters, a few naughty photographs, and, I suppose, a few more things Francis couldn’t bear to tell me, but Priscilla had a fit. She refused to go through with the wedding. Enter: me.”

I was dumbfounded. I wanted to talk to Francis about it, but what would I say? _Sorry_? It’d be empty.

“Of course, you won’t let on that you know all that, right? I don’t want Francis thinking I’m betraying his confidence, but I really do this you ought to have the whole picture for once, don’t you?”

I did. But, Francis came back onto the balcony with a pitcher of mojitos, so I couldn’t respond.

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling, I took your seat,” Camilla said, starting to get up, but Francis hushed her.

“No, no, it’s fine, I’ll sit somewhere else.” He looked around the table, but stopped, suddenly. “Actually—” he laughed, and walked to the other side of the balcony, where there was what I had believed to be a porch swing covered with a large black tarp. “It’s been rainy this week, but I think the weather is going to break.” He pulled away the tarp to reveal a beautiful, thick macramé hammock. “We could all fit, if you’d like. We had a glass panel put in this side of the balcony, so we could feel like it’s hanging in the street. Had to petition the HOA of this building. God, the havoc they caused, I ended up having to make a considerable donation to some small cancer charity before they’d even consider—”

Camilla interrupted him, by giddily rolling into the hammock, laughing as it swung her gently. “Hop in!” she giggled. “It’ll hold us.”

Francis raised his eyebrows at me. “After _you._”

I got in after Camilla, sinking deeper towards the ground, knocking softly into her body. I started laughing; here I was, dizzily drunk, next to Camilla, who was smiling at me, her eyes half shut. The glass panel was a superb touch to the experience. It felt like being a cloud above the city.

Francis got in after me, sandwiching me between both of them. I felt blissfully, inexplicably light, even though I could feel my back brush lightly against the ground as we swayed. I leaned up a bit, and stretched my arms around them, both of them resting on one of my shoulders. It was strange—beyond strange, but there was a seductiveness to the oddness of it.

We stayed that way a long time, absent-minded, drinking in the feeling, trying to hold the moment still in our hands. After what I imagine to be a very long while, I was the aware of a slight pressure on my lower stomach. A hand? I wanted to lean up to look, but I was worried it would go away if I paid any attention to it. I chose to notice it silently, feeling the casual way the fingertips moved against my shirt, slowly tugging it upwards, untucking it from my pants. I was looking straight ahead. I couldn’t feel movement on any particular side of the hammock, just the constant swaying with the breeze.

I panicked; I couldn’t see who was touching me without stopping them. And truthfully, in this particular moment, blisteringly drunk, in the most vivid, earnest hours of my life in years upon years, I’m not sure I would have stopped either of them.

I closed my eyes, and relaxed.

My shirt was completely out now, and my undershirt. They carefully undid my belt—I could hear the buckle _clink_ as they knocked it away, and then the button on my pants.

I swallowed. The hands were deft and moved delicately, but seemed too long, too spider-thin, and moved much too surely, as they pulled my pants down slightly, just enough to remove my cock from my boxers. By the time they had touched me, I already knew it was Francis.

And gods almighty, did he touch me. A person gets very used to their own hand.

I had never been in a threesome, and I suppose, I still hadn’t, but still the rules were very foreign to me. I puzzled through the social equation before me.

_You are in bed with a bride and groom_, I thought to myself. _The bride is laughing, looking out into the city, while the groom strokes your cock. You are all a little in love with each other. True or false: It is socially acceptable for you to cum. _

I didn’t have to decide. Soon enough, Camilla had reached up and tilted my head towards hers, kissing me deeply.

_ True,_ I thought. Francis moved quickly, making little motions with his thumb as he rubbed up and down the length of me. That, mixed with Camilla’s tongue in my mouth, and it didn’t take very long for me to burst.

I came for what felt like minutes, constricting forwards and falling back into both of their arms. They were still laughing. Why were they laughing?

I struggled to catch my breath. My vision had gone dark in the edges. I sank deeper into them as I tried to come to.

Camilla kissed me on the cheek, oh-so-sweetly. “We really are so glad to have you here with us.”

“Yes,” Francis finished, still chuckling. “We were worried you wouldn’t come.” He laughed harder at his own corniness, Camilla along with him, but I felt strangely sober in the afterglow. I especially didn't like Francis laughing at me. Is this what Charles would do to him?

I bet it feels good to be finally in on the joke.

_A hammock_, I thought. _A hand-knotted spiderweb, dangling over the city. _

I reminded myself: spiders don’t kill their prey. They keep them sedated.


	3. Menthols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nice short chapter for a long bad week.
> 
> Francis and Richard go shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might be a great place for u, the reader, to be thinking, "hey serpa, do you have any concrete plan for where this is going?"
> 
> excellent question!
> 
> no
> 
> but i'm having a great time, hope thats enough 4 u
> 
> Also! thank you for all of the kind responses! so very pleased to please you

“Hmm…” Francis said pensively, looking me up and down, fiddling with my collar. “I don’t know. I think I liked lilac better. Then again, that looked a little garish on.”

“This is the twelfth shirt you’ve put me in, Francis. We’re running out of colors.”

He cupped his chin in his hand. “This isn’t supposed to be my job. Camilla should’ve chosen these details.”

I thought about saying that no matter what Camilla would have chosen, he would’ve had reservations—the fabric would be too stiff or the pleats were placed strangely—but I kept my mouth shut. Francis was becoming more and more dizzily anxious in the last week, and I was starting to sympathize. 

The tailor toddled around us, huffing and puffing at Francis' indecisiveness. 

“Perhaps something from outside our wedding collection, then?” He asked. “We have some lovely silk green paisleys in the back room. Shall I get one for you?”

“God, no.” Francis said.

The tailor frowned. “Very well, sir. I’ll see if we have anything closer to your taste.”

He left the room and Francis collapsed on a nearby chaise. “_Paisley._ For a wedding. Jesus, this man thinks I’m a beatnik.”

“He’s doing his best.”

“No, he’s not. If he were, I’d have made a purchase hours ago.”

I looked down at my watch. 4:30. We’d finished our complimentary champagne around 2.

It was becoming increasingly apparent, among family and guests, that this wedding had been cobbled together on extremely short notice. The prevailing theory among the socialites was that Francis, _the horny bastard he is_, had knocked up Camilla while still involved with Priscilla. Camilla, surprisingly, made no efforts to stem this accusation.

“Well, I see it this way,” she told me, a few nights ago, over a private dinner near Central Park. “The story pieces itself together quite nicely. If everyone believes that good, honorable Francis is making an honest woman of me, they won’t dig to figure out the truth. He’s protected. That’s really all that matters, right now. We just have to trust that Priscilla won’t do anything to set the record straight.”

“What happens in a few months, then? When there is no baby? Won't you have loose ends to tie up?”

Camilla smiled. “It’ll all be old news by then, I hope.”

Our collaboration on the hammock had done a lot to break the ice among our group, but Camilla still kept a careful distance from me; promising nothing, providing less. While Francis and I became closer from our entanglement, Camilla, I fear, sunk a bit deeper into herself.

“There’s no need to get hysterical.” I told Francis. He pouted. “Really, it’s just a shirt.”

“Just a shirt?” His voice raised, cracking a bit. “We’re going to be in the wedding section of the _Times. _The entire city is going to see us. It’s not _just a shirt._ It’s my entire reputation.”

_Well,_ I thought, _you don’t _have_ to put your fake wedding in the Times._

“Let’s just a take a moment to try to relax, then.” I started. “Why don’t you help me out of this shirt and then we’ll take a breather.”

He cocked his head at me, eyebrows raised, a charming, juvenile expression left over from his youth. “In the dressing room?”

“If you’d like.”

He got up quickly, straightening his slacks as he stood. “Well, I mean, he’ll probably be gone for a few moments.”

We moved into the dressing room and Francis didn’t waste a second, his long, white fingers carefully unbuttoning the shirt and tossing it to the floor. He kissed me deeply. I had gotten used to the taste of him—curiously masculine, spearmint gum and Parliament cigarettes.

“Have you been chewing gum?” I asked, pulling away from him. He held my head in his hands.

“No. I started smoking menthols. Camilla said they’re better for your health.”

“They aren’t. They just taste better.”

“You think they taste better? It’s like smoking a stick of mouthwash.”

“Then why are you smoking them?”

“Because they’re better for my health, Richard. Jesus, it’s like talking to a brick wall with you, sometimes.”

We went at it, again. This time, I worked at his belt, sliding his pants down his legs. He was big—I don’t want to say considerably bigger than me—but that’s just my pride speaking. He had a few, solid inches on me.

But I have a much larger mouth than him.

I got on my knees, which wasn’t that horrible in the carpeted dressing room, and started to blow him. 

“God, Richard,” he mumbled. Outside, we heard the tailor return, sputtering about, looking for us. Francis put his hand over his mouth to keep from making noise.

“Mr. Abernathy?” The tailor called. “I found a few more shirts from our previous collections. Would you like me to hang them on the door?”

“Yes, please,” Francis managed to reply.

I heard the hangers shimmy against the wooden door. I didn’t stop to look up—too focused on the task at hand.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Francis gasped. “Really, he’s back, we should stop.”

“Calm down, you’re almost finished.”

“I am not! It’s only been two minutes, Richard. I’m not a_ teenager._”

“Fine,” I said, sitting back on my knees. “We’ll finish later.”

“Oh, my god,” he said, pulling up his trousers. “That’s it. That’s perfect.”

Hanging on the door was a lovely, antique white, cotton shirt, with burgundy piping. I glanced at the price tag, which I couldn’t quite make out, (my eyesight has been going for the past few years, but lacking vision coverage, I’d been ignoring it by buying drug-store reading glasses, all of which I’d left in California to protect my dignity) but it definitely showed three figures.

“It’s nearly the exact color of Camilla’s dress. Oh, that’ll be lovely.”

The shirts, lighter than cream, but not quite pure white, looked a bit sallow against Francis' paleness, but surely would look illuminate against Camilla's more yellow coloring. “Camilla isn’t wearing white?” 

Francis scrunched up his nose. “Camilla is Catholic. She knows better.”


End file.
